


Crush at First Sight

by Normandy_Fallow_the_Deer



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Background Character Death, Crush at First Sight, Gen, Minor Canon-divergence, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Non-Graphic Violence, One-Sided Attraction, Original Character(s), Originally Posted on Tumblr, i took minor creative liberties writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-19 04:43:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13697106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Normandy_Fallow_the_Deer/pseuds/Normandy_Fallow_the_Deer
Summary: Love at first sight was a lie. Crushing hardcore at first sight? Maybe not as fake as Ysraline figured…





	Crush at First Sight

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Voltron. I do however hold creative rights over OCs Ysraline and Ama'lashi.
> 
> Cross-posted/Originally on tumblr; @ gushing-over-galra

Love at first sight was a lie.

It was a fairy-tale concept conjured by storytellers and fanciful old maids based off the old myths of deities loving mortals after laying their godly eyes on them for the first time ever and seeking them out only to end in tragedy or happily ever after.

Or the fictional stories of an Altean prince or princess falling for a commoner and the strife they faced fighting the laws of inter-class marriages outside of wedlock which was worse of a scandal than class-affairs.

Depending on who you asked and where these storytellers were from of course, endings changed through the many subcultures. And which class they were from. Older nobility would often tell the princess and the pauper story that ended in the common-man’s execution and the princess’s arranged marriage, while common-folk would eagerly tell the tale of the princess marrying for love and giving up the crown against her royal parents’ wishes.

Altea was fraught with literal nightmares come true that rained from the heavens, and such amazing, graceful beauty that grew from the depths of hell. Flaming, molten rocks from the stratosphere, and juniberry flower fields where the flame-rain didn’t flourish.

Alteans had first thought that Galra were nightmares. They came in warships from the sky and demanded everything from them.

They hadn’t yet gotten to exploring beyond their system though they knew from observation, and highly advanced technology, that other life _did_ in fact exist and that there would come a time that they would need to identify and meet these other alien cultures. For peace in their systems, of course.

Emperor Haruka had been the great Imperial majesty when the Galra arrived, and the Galra had been present until Empress Fala called for peace talks a whole generation later. 

Galra had come at first seeking to conquer.

Daibazaal was running out of resources, and no amount of trade seemed to work for them – not at the rate the Galran people consumed these raw materials – therefore Emperor Zarkon had thought nothing less of taking more and more planets for his people’s survival.

Lady Karthala Ofallian, Ysraline’s great-grandmother, had agreed that Zarkon was right and had offered to help him in exchange that he didn’t kill so many Alteans. Less lives lost, the better. It had resulted in the exile of the Ofallian family house and all who affiliated willingly with the civil war they started in hopes to split the Altean forces for the Galra advantage. Even the children were banished or taken from their families. Among which, Ysraline had just been born and was taken away with to live among off-planet bases like a military brat.

He grew up in a rebellion, he came of age in an era of peace, and he had gone under the cryostasis when the Empire went mad and destroyed Altea.

Ysraline, when he was woken up from his long, long slumber came to firmly believe that you never trusted your gut instinct. Care and caution saved lives and thinking of all steps and secrets and strengths and weaknesses meant a hundred percent success rates in a war.

It had been nine thousand years since the death of Altea, and he was the last Ofallian remaining. He spent a hundred years after reawakening with his reawakened rebel Alteans pawning off scavenge and working bounties in the crime market until he could self-sustain.

The Regnanari were rebirthed and he was going to ensure his people _thrived_.

Zarkon still yet lived – to his amazement – and it proved a fruitful alliance. If not one he got an unfair advantage over. Zarkon was too self-assured. Too cocky in his strength to notice how he sapped at the Empire until it was too late and he was gone.

Four hundred years working with the Galra as assassins and spies meant at the end Ysraline and his forces had stolen tech, blueprints, medical practices, druid-secrets and maps of all kinds. Existence in the horizon was easy at that point.

Another five hundred years and they were a formidable ally and Zarkon’s ardor-rage had cooled. Quite literally.

Arriving at the Empire had met with an empty throne, an advisor Druid Haggar who remembered his actions and was _very_ angry though her words held no threat when he knew how a druid worked.

Ysraline was _untouchable_ as it were.

Which was why he was comfortable attending an arena match. Galra sport hadn’t changed a bit it seemed in ten thousand years, and security was high. There were quite a few important people in the stands after all. Commanders and lieutenants of all kinds with a few Generals scattered like ashes in a river throughout.

The matches were too predictable and Ysraline grew bored quickly, bickering with his General standing guard beside him about the politics of the universe currently. He heard the senators of the 275CB-sector were seeking guards for an event, perhaps they could stock up on some credits before they retreated again-

“What the quiznak.” Ysraline muttered when the small gladiator, flighty and strafing everywhere, _defeated_ the considerably bigger opponent with a loud _thunk_ as the corpse hit the ground after a clean _shink_ of the gladiator’s blade cutting it.

“Oh, you just lost twenty credits, my Magistrix.” Ama’lashi teased, staring at the many sentries that hurried to clear the field leaving the one agile gladiator alone in the arena. Ysraline had made a sound bet on the idea that the large creature would have had more stamina than the impersonation of a lumin-fly and would easily crush it.

Pink eyes followed the herd of robots like they were a swarm carrying away their next meal, and Ysraline was more focused on the gladiator than Ama’lashi’s focus of gambling or teasing him.

He could feel every inch of his cheeks and ears heating with an embarrassed flush though that didn’t stop the emotionally-reflective light lines on his body and armor suit from flooding a rosy pink in the helmet, neck, and shoulders, displaying for his General his now obvious embarrassment.

The gladiator is drop-dead handsome, with lengthy white hair and what Ysraline swears are Altean features. Not many Galra have pupils anymore, and he is wearing colors not of the standard Galra.

And then he launches into a lengthy speech, introducing himself as Prince Lotor.

Ama’lashi is laughing so hard she must step out of the arena for a moment to laugh freely after she sees his obvious blushing. 

This was _not_ love, Ysraline assured himself.

The blushing and way his brain seemed to halt all processes beyond looking was _not_ a sign of falling. And it was only one word that he could muster at the point and Ama’lashi had heard it from the hallway as she meant to come back, her laughter returning in a boisterous cacophony behind him.

“Shit.”

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if there are any mistakes I made and be sure to leave your love if you liked it, this is, after all, my first AO3 work.


End file.
